


The Replacement

by sycamoretree



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Corporal Punishment, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, InseparablesFest2k14, Loyalty, Physical Abuse, papa bear!Tréville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2892647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sycamoretree/pseuds/sycamoretree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contribution to the 'Inseparables Fest 2k14'. Written for prompt on the BBC Musketeers kink meme: Louis as a petulant brat falls out with Treville and dismisses him. The musketeers are not impressed with the replacement and do their best to encourage the new captain to quit. They can't be outright insubordinate, so they must seemingly obey the orders the replacement gives them. (http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=1307581#cmt1307581)</p><p>I changed some details; Treville is injured and not merely dismissed, and the replacement isn't only lousy, but rotten with an agenda of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Replacement

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the 'Inseparables Fest 2k14' on Tumblr, #inseparablesfest. It's meant to be a celebration of the OT3 that consists of the three musketeers, but d'Artagnan is of course allowed to feature, too. As long as Athos, Porthos, and Aramis are together, platonically or romantically, and are the focus, anything goes.

Through gritted teeth while surveying the musketeer yard by the entrance, Porthos hissed, “Leave, Aramis.”

But the other man didn’t obey as he stumbled to his knees at Porthos’ feet and clutched the large saddle to his chest to avoid dropping it into the mud on the ground.

“I’m merely falling, my friend. And sharing a revelation of mine. He’s weakening us.”

Porthos averted his gaze from the hat brim that kept Aramis’ eyes hidden from view. Instead he straightened his back and swept his eyes over the busy men occupying the yard. Even as he turned his face right to what had been Treville’s office, he breathed, “Speak quickly.”

Not hesitant in his speech although his fingers danced seemingly nervously over the stirups, Aramis whispered, “Captain Dubé is intent on weakening us four since the first day he set his dirty boots in our regiment. Do you see it?”

Porthos gave a low grunt to reveal he didn’t understand and Aramis sighed and one gloved hand slid sadly over the polished leather.

“Dubé wishes to put his own mark on the regiment, and has apparently decided that we represent the best of Treville's leadership. He wants to change that now. My eyes are strained when focusing on thread and needles all day. My hands shake. I cannot make a good shot now, and I dare not try to draw my sword. I fear I can't grip it.”

Aramis tilted his head a little to indicate a burdened man dressed down to his shirtsleeves despite the cold autumn air. The man who staggered towards the well with a yoke on his shoulders was Athos.

Aramis sighed. “Dubé is forcing Athos to be without wine, as if any of us are constantly sober after duty! He’s humiliating Athos by pushing him into dirt as if he be an arrogant nobleman needing a lesson of humbleness. He’s breaking Athos’ proud spirit."

Porthos bared his teeth at the sorry sight of Athos and then nodded harshly in the direction of the younger recruits who stood at attention below the balcony.

"And what of d'Artagnan and me? He and I are not being weakened through hard labour."

"D’Artagnan will be the model musketeer Dubé can mold as he pleases to ensure his oh so important legacy in this garrison. I’m not sure for how long our young Gascon will endure the pressure and authority without us by his side to guide him and support him to make just and good decisions. After all, as a son to a renowned diplomat, Dubé is prone to using propaganda to get what he wants."

Aramis shifted the heavy saddle on his knees and smiled tentatively. "As for you, my friend, he’s taking your strength from you. Day by day when you stand idle without break for meals, guarding the regiment against no menace until your limbs weaken. Which reminds me; I need rest more than nourishment now, so come by my room tonight and eat my dinner, for I will only sleep.”

Porthos was about to end his muted state and comfort Aramis when Dubé's snide voice sounded over the busy yard.

“Porthos!”

The new captain stalked down the stairs with less dignity than a goat and all but kicked Aramis out of his way. Porthos swallowed a growl when his friend scurried off, this time truly frightened, but not for himself. Porthos puffed his chest out and fastened his eyes steadily on the opposite wall of the yard.

“Yes, Captain?” he drawled and Dubé bristled with fury somewhere below by Porthos' elbow. Dubé would have been an amusing man if he didn’t hold so much power in his hand. Porthos could only guess how a nobleman in court still living on the achievements of his late father had managed to pursuade King Louis that he would be an adequate replacement to the position of Captain over the musketeers after Treville had been attacked on a mission outside of Paris and been hit so hard on his head that he still was unconscious.

"You’re supposed to keep your eyes on the gateway!”

Porthos twisted his mouth in irritation. “Not many citizens venture inside a garrison filled with armed musketeers if they have their wits about them,” he commented. Dubé puffed out what chest he had.

“Half rations for you for the rest of the month, for your dissatisfactory watch!”

Porthos’ stomach dropped for he knew that half of something that was already limited due to Dubé’s irrational whims would leave him starving for real. Porthos had starved before in his life. He never wanted to go through that again, especially not while belonging to the King’s musketeers proud ranks. But he couldn’t personally afford all meals of the day with the other expanses he had.

“Yes, Captain,” he muttered and Dubé’s mask of rage lifted. Instead, he lifted a hand and pressed a finger to his lips while pondering something.

“I don’t think that will be enough to quench that rebellious streak in you. Let’s see if this makes you a little more cooperative."

The Captain spun and confidently turned his back to Porthos who could have seized the opportunity that presented itself. But to threaten a superior officer, no matter how much he may deserve it, would mean severe punishments dealt from the fickle king. So it was with growing agitation that Porthos studied Dubé when he called out triumphantly, “Aramis!”

Porthos’ heart stuttered when his friend emerged from the stable with eyes bled red from strain, harried face, and shaking hands. Porthos hadn’t notice the damage done to Aramis from the previous angle.

“You called?” Aramis stated smoothly, carrying an air of neutrality despite the whole yard fell silent to watch the exchange between the leader and the musketeer under his command. Dubé’s lips curled upwards with malice.

“It’s _Captain_ Dubé to you, insolent rat. I believe your mistake calls for more labour. To the storehouse with you. I want _every_ torn shirt mended and _every_ saddle with a damaged seam looked over with new threads.”

Aramis wilted from the added burden to his tasks and he bent his head in defeat before he shuffled to his destined exile. But Dubé wasn’t done with harming Porthos through his dearest friends and family.

“Athos!”

Athos could only lift his head below the weight of the yoke across his shoulders. Lap after lap for hours from the well to various places in the regiment with heavy water-buckets had exhausted him. White in the face Athos pressed his lips together to be able to stand stil and not tremble. His body must be screaming for relief. The back was bowed and broken callouses on his hands had smeared blood and pus over the wooden handles of the buckets.

Something tore in Porthos' heart upon gazing at the unkempt beard, the unwashed hair and the worn and smudged shirt and trousers. Dubé had made Athos look nothing like the secret nobleman the others were used to seeing. Athos was treated like the lowest of servants. The forced abstinence from wine was further weakening him.

Dubé smacked his tongue in repulse at the sorry man before he decided with an almost silken tone, “Isolation cell for you for two weeks starting tomorrow. Bread and water only. There you can contemplate your disgraceful appearance before your brothers. The King’s musketeers shan’t be filthy like you.”

Athos didn't so much as flinch at the insults. He looked dead on his feet and couldn't even muster a condescending reply. He _accepted_ Dubé's words and Porthos felt a pained moan work its way up his throat.

But someone else came to Athos' defence.

D’Artagnan looked as if he wanted to protest, and he did step out of line which earned him Dubé’s attention. Porthos winced when the boy stood bravely in the open, facing off with the leader.

“That is unfair of you. He didn’t do anything besides carrying out _your_ order which _makes_ him dirty.”

Dubé slithered closer to the young, defiant man and Porthos held his breath, as did most of the musketeers.

Dubé retorted with a snarky tone, “Only because Treville has been coddling you and been far too lenient with your lazy, devious personalities doesn’t mean I will accept the same behaviour without question. That’s all there is to the matter, d’Artagnan. Stand back.”

But d’Artagnan didn't do what he was ordered to. Instead the hotheaded man clenched his fists and exclaimed reproachfully, “You’re not being a good leader!”

Dubé drew nearer and Porthos was tempted to wave wildly behind his back to warn d’Artagnan to not take the confrontation further. But the young boy didn’t sense Porthos' worry.

“Treville has been failing, not I!” Dubé hissed.

D'Artagnan sneered, “If you were half the captain Treville is…”

“I’m ten times the captain Treville _was_!”

Dubé slapped d'Artagnan with a gloved hand so hard that the young man's head reeled sideways and raven strands flared with the speed.

The disgracing act echoed over the silent yard. With a tensed jaw, Athos trained his eyes on the other man. D'Artagnan's chest heaved with shock and there was hurt in his dark eyes under the long lashes. His cheek was already turning red from the degrading slap. His indomitability made Porthos proud but concerned all the same for the repercussions such a streak would bring upon the boy.

Dubé snorted at the young man and made for the stairs to the captain's office while he said, “Let’s put your skills with the sword to the test, properly. We ride out tomorrow afternoon on a mission. Only my best men will join us. Consider this an honour and a good opportunity to show me your worth, Gascon.”

That 'mission' would likely be more considered as a curse if Dubé was to accompany fairly inexperienced, new musketeers. He would probably lead them straight into danger.

Porthos locked eyes with Aramis and Athos who both shared the same look of despair. They had until tomorrow morning to fix this, before Athos was to be kept isolated as a captive, Porthos to be starved. Aramis to be overworked, and d’Artagnan ordered away to a mission alongside Dubé, which had to end in disaster given to Captain’s poor decisions and blind fixation with his own fame.

There was no laughter, no joy, no rest for the men in the regiment any longer. Just duties upon duties while Dubé roamed through their group and selected favourites to represent his good leadership.

Once the door upstairs was shut, the musketeers returned slowly to perform their new duties. Athos staggered seriously and spilled water over d’Artagnan’s boots, and another musketeer across the yard saw and began cursing and stomping over some imagined pain. He was making a lot of noise so no-one would notice when Athos lingered before d'Artagnan a moment too long.

D'Artagnan studied his tired mentor curiously until he at last spotted the edge of the parchment in his Athos' sleeve. He grasped it, let his fingers momentarily stroke the still soft skin of Athos’ wrist before removing the message. Both his cheeks heated after his daring move, but he felt a need to lend some amount of comfort to the abused man.

Athos wore a strange expression when he glanced up at d’Artagnan before gathering his upended buckets and returning to the well. D'Artagnan carefully unfolded the message and read the scribbled words.

_Dusk. Athos’ preferred tavern. Lose all pursuers._

* * *

  
D’Artagnan arrived at the tavern when the sun had vanished, but his companions were already occupying a table in a far corner.

Porthos was seated next to Athos who had Aramis close against his shoulder and their heads naturally angled towards each other over the table as they kept their quiet conversation private from curious, treacherous ears. One empty bottle stood before Athos and there were three equally empty bowls beside it, although two of them were placed right in front of Porthos. Aramis had nothing but his trembling, aching fingers on the table.

D’Artagnan took in their slumped postures, the age on their dirty faces, and the constant shifting that made the leather groan when shoulder met shoulder. It was as if they couldn’t be comfortable in one position. Then d’Artagnan felt his stomach drop with horror.

“By god, you’re holding each other up!” he gasped and Aramis lifted sad eyes to meet his.

“How else can we keep planning for a solution and avoid falling asleep here on the table?”

Each musketeer received a moment to lean on another, just as he after a while returned the favour and let the man next to him rest some weight against his body. Athos murmured dizzily even after a few careful sips of red wine, “D’Artagnan, I doubt we can take much more from our commander.”

“We’re bone-tired,” Porthos supplemented as he reached an arm, with a leather sleeve that hung loosely around his limb, to grasp Aramis’ tender hand and pull him more against Athos, and Athos benefited also from the small hug.

D'Artagnan let out, “You can’t give up!”

Athos huffed, “Don’t be a fool; of course we’re not giving up to such a man.”

“He hasn’t broken us yet,” Porthos reassured.

“Not yet anyway!” d’Artagnan exclaimed and received a reproaching gaze from Aramis who nuzzled into Athos’ shoulder.

“Better us than you,” Aramis emitted and d’Artagnan lowered his gaze to his clenched fists on the surface of the table. He felt so helpless in his awkwardly elevated position and being treated like a naughty student needing to be molded into something of use to Dubé, while his friends suffered and were disgraced in front of him day after day.

Porthos asked, “Why does Dubé keep exploiting our strengths?”

Athos muttered, “He sees us as the pride of the regiment, and a living proof of Treville’s excellent leadership. Dubé feels envy, and he seeks to create his own now that he has the opportunity. I only hope Treville comes out from that unconsciousness."

Porthos seriously stated, "A hit to the head is always serious."

“But we need to think of some weakness of Dubé which we can exploit in return.”

“Are you speaking of treason? Mutiny?” d'Artagnan hissed while looking around them, just in case.

Athos drawled even with a hoarse voice, “No, of course we’re not because we’ve sworn to be loyal to our Captain…”

Porthos interrupted Athos’ remark with a certain mischievous spark returning to his eyes. “No, we’ve sworn our loyalty to the King of France. The captains may come and go, in theory. Although, I admit I did swear an oath to my Captain, who at the time was, and still is; Treville. I can never serve under Dubé.”

Athos shrugged and his gaze travelled from man to man in their group. “So, have we agreed that Dubé must step down from the position, even if we risk being handed over to a judge?”

Aramis smacked his tongue in displeasure. “Well, we won’t exactly be flaunting our agreement, Athos. No-one will find out. We just need a good plan.”

“You mean a more discreet and anonymous plan than the one involving broken planks on the balcony, and Dubé’s unavoidable fall down into the suddenly moved dunghill?”

Athos arched an eyebrow and Aramis replied with a face void of emotions, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. And I resent the implication that the unfortunate episode on Dubé’s tenth day as Captain wasn’t an anonymous one.”

D’Artagnan couldn’t prevent a chuckle at the memorable scene, even if the whole regiment had been ordered to stand at attention in the yard for as long as it took Dubé to become presentable and not smelling again.

Porthos however shifted with unease as his friends danced between jokes and possibly conflict.

“Never mind that prank. We need a serious, formally accepted excuse to expose his inadequate leadership and make him go away, because he’ll be clinging to the title for dear life.”

D’Artagnan put his elbows on the table and leaned his chin in his hands, before he felt a twinge in his sore cheek, and leaned the other way. That's when he got the idea.

"Wait a moment. Dubé did slap me. Not while holding his glove, but it was his glove that hit me all the same. That should mean he challenged me to a duel, or am I wrong?”

Aramis began to laugh and three pairs of warm, approving eyes settled on the Gascon. "Yes! This is our chance! You can easily best him and prove that he isn't fit to lead musketeers if he cannot fight his opponents properly! With the support from us, the regiment and Treville, soon enough, we’ll send Dubé out arse first come morning.”

"We better," Athos mumbled warily, “tomorrow morning is the point when our time together in relative freedom expires.”

Porthos slung an arm over his shoulder comfortingly. “Let’s not lose hope just yet. We have to design a plan to find and wake up Treville, abduct him, and make him side with us in case the King deems it necessary to engage in our disagreement with Dubé. Only then can we defeat Dubé legally and formally tomorrow.”

“No need to worry, then,” Athos said wryly but appreciated the hug nevertheless.

“We must not falter. And we will not abandon Treville to shame and isolation. We find a way to whatever chamber they’re keeping him in, bring him out of the consciousness, and reinstate him as our commander.”

* * *

Even though two musketeers were standing guard outside Treville's home in the middle of the night, the four friends managed to sneak into Treville’s room undetected. It was difficult nowadays to determine a musketeer's allegiance; whether they supported Dubé or Treville even in absence.

Despite his fatigue, Aramis made an effort to awaken their one and only Captain as the men seated themselves on stools around the bed where Treville was resting with a bandage wrapped around his head.

“We need you back, Captain. You need yourself back. Dubé is making a fool of himself and destroys the reputation of the regiment. The Redguards are not bothering us anymore, because they are too busy laughing at us, calling us the new housemaids of the court. You would be appalled by the shining, clean regiment, and its exhausted musketeers.”

Porthos emitted bleakly, “He said you were going to retire.”

Suddenly Treville began stirring, and with still closed eyes, he groaned, “He did what?”

“Captain! You’re awake!” Aramis cried out with delight but Treville held up an open hand and replied gruffly, “I’m _awakening_ , Aramis. Lower your voice, please.”

“We feared it would yet be a devastating while before you came back to us,” Porthos stated with his broad grin back in place.

D'Artagnan revealed carefully, “Although Dubé seemed amused by the idea of him in your position. He's your replacement, sir. He openly stated that you were getting… old.”

Treville heaved himself onto his side and grunted roughly, “What is the meaning of this nonsense? You four are always involved in some trouble, and dragging me in as well!”

Athos tentatively began to expain the sensitive situation to the healed man.

“Captain Dubé wants to add his own… _touch_ to the regiment and the musketeers. He appears to view your accomplishments as inadequate, sir.”

“Wait a moment, Athos; I’m trying to make sense of this.”

They all held silent for a while, while Treville was massaging his temple. Then he fixed falcon-eyes on each of them and asked with suspicion laced in his voice, “What did the fool Dubé say about my age?”

“That you’re getting old and should be expected to retire and leave your post available for Dubé.”

Treville pulled the blanket off his body and shifted his legs to the edge of the bed. “I’ve heard enough. Well, what are you waiting for? Get your horses and rent one for me. We ride back to the garrison at once.”

Aramis seemed floored by the rapid orders coming from Treville who after all was only recently recovered from a headwound. The musketeer dared to question Treville even when the older man began reaching for his trousers on a chair by the end of the bed.

“Shouldn’t you be resting some more? You could always write letters to the King and to Dubé…”

“I’ll rest in my grave, Aramis! Now, I have unfinished business with a _colleague_.”

Once standing and dressed in his proper, brown uniform, Treville took a moment to study his loyal musketeers more keenly, and he was astounded by what he saw.

He nodded at d'Artagnan's face and remarked more than asked, "Did he hit you, d'Artagnan?" "Yes," the young man admitted. Treville's forehead creased before he moved on to Athos.

"Your hands, Athos. Can you fight as they are now?"

"Not very good, I fear. But all the horses are watered at least, sir," Athos replied with a mix of softness and acid.

Treville bent a little to coax Aramis' gaze to rise as the man slumped and hung his head. "Aramis, you seem to need rest more than I do. You’re being cross-eyed."

“I’ve been more occupied with needle-work than I ever expected in the life of a musketeer."

Treville's jaw tightened and then he stepped forward and clasped Porthos' shoulders with his hands. Worry flashed in the older man's eyes.

"Porthos, what happened to your shape? Your arms have practically vanished!"

Porthos smiled gently as he gradually passed over the concern and responsibility he had felt for his brothers to Treville who was ready to protect them again. Porthos was tired.

"Dubé deemed me best suited for guarding duty every day."

“The nerve of him to reduce my best fencers to house staff!” Treville growled like a dog. A dog waiting for a hunt.

* * *

 In the early light of morning, Dubé paced in front of the strict lines of musketeers in the yard and held a pompous speech to the exhausted men.

“Treville is an old man, gentlemen. You shouldn’t expect of him to not step back in an imminent future, if he eventually wakes up. So today, some of you will ride out with me on our first official mission, and it shall be a successful one. You lot will not taint my good name.”

From the back of the crowd, Porthos growled testily, “Don't talk like that. Treville will die on his post with honour and wisdom engraved on his pauldron!”

Dubé whirled around and made an ugly face when Porthos volountarily stepped out from the line, walked towards the man, and openly announced himself as the speaker. Dubé placed his hands on his hips and smacked his tongue when Porthos came to stand in front of him.

“Oh, is he now? Bad taste to speak of a gravely injured man as dead, don’t you think?” His eyes dragged up and down Porthos’ shape as he added maliously, “Still, I would expect nothing more from a cur of the gutter.”

Porthos ground his teeth at the offence as Aramis was heard sputtering curses wildly as he tried to get to Porthos’ side and protest against the unjust insults, and Athos was doing his best to find a sword to make Dubé pay for the things he said.

But Dubé seemed convinced of his superiority as he rocked back on his heels before he pushed himself dangerously close into Porthos’ space.

“Mark my words, _common_ musketeer; the days of Treville’s reign is over. I lead a new era and you better adapt or you will soon follow him into a bleak future.”

“I think not.”

It wasn't Porthos who spoke.

The whole regiment, Dubé included, starled when an authoritative but not necessarily loud male voice sounded through the yard.

There, in the gateway of the regiment stood a firm and decisive Treville. Dressed a captain's uniform and tall, if pale from the long sleep. A tuft of hair escaped from the flat way the hair had been pressed under the bandage for so long was the only thing that proved that Treville had been unwell lately.

The recovered man entered the scene with resolution in every step he took to reach Dubé.

Once standing nearby his replacement, Treville breathed deeply and inspected a fastly flushing Dubé as if he was nothing but a remarkably non-satisfactory soldier of the lowest rank. Then Treville hardly batted an eye when he addressed Porthos by his side, “Leave this to me, Porthos.”

“Yes, Captain.” The words flowed easy from Porthos’ mouth while he backed away to let Treville handle the situation, but chose to stand near Treville along with his brothers who emerged from the restless ranks of musketeers following the drama.

Dubé whispered with denial in his eyes, “You were supposed to never come back.”

“Then I imagine you will rejoice my return to be the right hand of the King and commander of the royal musketeers?” Treville raised an eyebrow at his own rethorical question that could make any sane man shrink. But Dubé wasn’t sane.

Treville purred menacingly, “I heard reports of your conduct of leadership and decided it was time I return and relieve you from this task.”

“I am the Captain! I belong in that office, in that chair, and I deserve my share of glory!”

Treville badly hid a grimace. “Ah, pity. I hoped my informers had it wrong, but now I fear that they were telling the truth about the growing mess of documents on the desk and the diminishing amount of content in _my_ bottle of cognac.”

“It’s hard work running a regiment of musketeers!” Dubé cried out like a babe but received a hard glare from the taller man who remarked, “Especially if you mistreat the soldiers, deliberately weaken them, and ruin their reputation by letting them slave for your benefit only and not for example the _King_ or the _citizens_ of Paris.”

“If I had been as lenient as you were…”

“Silence! I shall have retribution for damaging the King’s guard. It will take _weeks_ until they are fit for doing what they are here for; protecting the King and keeping France safe. How could you let this elite garrison decay in a few weeks, Dubé?”

The cowering man sputtered, “It wasn’t my fault! The soldiers brought this on themselves! This shouldn’t be my legacy.”

Treville waved a hand in the air and efficiently ended Dubé’s increasingly panicked flow of words.

“Well, fortunaly for you, you still have a chance to regain your honour. Technically, you’ve challenged d'Artagnan to a duel.”

Dubé's eyes bulged. “What?!” he keened.

“When you slapped me yesterday, monsieur,” d'Artagnan helpfully supplemented while Treville’s eyes flared. The recovered captain was almost breathing fire.

“Your glove hit my cheek. I suppose now is as good a time as any. Prepare to fight me.” The Gascon drew his sword and the steel sang.

Dubé paled.

Aramis couldn’t resist petty teasing once he had the upper hand, so he strolled languishly around Dubé as he murmured, “D’Artagnan has been improving immensely under Treville’s tutelage. The boy is almost as good at fencing as Athos. How good are you, monsieur? I don’t believe we’ve ever had the privilege of seeing you brandishing a sword.”

“This is outrageous! Treville,” Dubé yelled and pointed a condescending finger in Treville's direction. "You bring shame over the king."

Treville shrugged indifferently. “He hasn’t complained much. And I suspect that after he receives the message of my improved condition, he’ll support me when I resume the title of Captain for his musketeers. Now, fight d'Artagnan before I grow impatient."

With tembling hands, Dubé fumbled his rapier out if its sheath. D'Artagnan slid his dagger against the blade which created a screech that made Dubé drop his own rapier in the mud. No-one rushed to help him retrieve it.

Dubé's hand shook badly when he bent to reach for it. Treville sighed loudly and waved a hand at the Gascon. "D'Artagnan, do you think you could spare this man and let him leave with his honour intact?"

“The tiny one he still possesses, then,” d'Artagnan grinned cheekily and Dubé locked eyes with Treville who coolly jerked his head towards the arc of the entrance.

“Leave my musketeers to me, and I advise you to never return to Paris, because as Captain of the musketeers, it’s my duty to investigate any harm done to those who are supposed to protect the King. I hope we have an understanding?”

“Yes,” the terrified man whispered hoarsely and stumbled out of their sight.

The whole regiment cheered and began to flock around their returned leader to shake his hand and welcome him back.

Treville endured the gratitude for a short while before he extracted himself from the circle and shouted with a laugh, "Alright, enough of sucking up to me! Go back to your duties, and I mean a hearty meal of breakfast, sparring, and shooting. We use the old patrol rotation, so you know who will go around the city today."

As the men turned their backs to him to and eagerly talked to each other, Trevile fastened his eyes on four particular backs. He loudly declared, “Your four!" Oddly enough, these four backs tensed at the same time as if they knew who Treville associated with the number four.

The three older men and their younger companion spun to watch Treville who waggled a finger. "No leaving of the garrison for you for one week!”

Aramis exclaimed with a hurt hitch to his voice, “What?! What have we done to deserve such an unfair punishment?”

Treville smiled wryly, his usual dry leadership falling into place again. “You’ve gotten yourselves unfit for any activities other than healing, especially after neglecting your sleep last night. You are to stay in beds here under the physician’s supervision and rest properly for seven days.”

"But Captain…” d'Artagnan whined, with restlessness of youth in his limbs, “It’ll be a tedious nightmare to be in bed without company nor entertainment for a week!”

“You’ll do as you’re told. I’m your captain, and I know what’s best for you," Treville retorted. Then he added somewhat milder, “I can have you all rest in the same chamber so that you at least stay by your friends.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Porthos smiled. Truth to be told, they all longed for bed.

Athos bowed his head respectfully to his leader. “It’s good to have you back, sir”

Treville waved a hand dismissively at them. “Yes, yes, enough groveling; just go to bed and rest up, already.”

He watched them trudge over the yard yawning and chattering, with proud grin on his face and fondness for his loyal musketeers in his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed the dialogue and the passage with the slap from the Lion King. I appreciate comments very much.


End file.
